


a love of my own

by socialiststeverogers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Epistolary, M/M, Mutual Pining, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-02 23:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10954911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socialiststeverogers/pseuds/socialiststeverogers
Summary: Brooklyn, 1948.Bucky Barnes, three years out of the Navy and two years out of work, finally agrees to take his sister's old job as an advice columnist at a local paper. There, he meets Steve Rogers: cartoonist, smartass, and the source of more problems for Bucky than any letter from a love-lorn Brooklynite.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic answers the questions: what if Bucky didn't join the Army? What if Steve went to the Pacific? What if, somehow, even though neither of them do this or show any inclination towards it, they both ended up working at a small, local newspaper? and perhaps most importantly, how can I make even the stuff I study for a very serious history paper relate to comics?
> 
> Title is from the Nat King Cole song "Dear Lonely Hearts," which made more sense before, when this was about a lonely hearts column and not an advice column, but what are you going to do?

Bucky followed Becca down the dusty hallway and up to a frosted glass door with “D. Mannheimer, Editor” printed on it in heavy black font.  Before she pushed the door open, his sister gave him a quick going-over, tucking a lock of thick dark hair back behind his ear. “Oh, don’t look so nervous, Buck, he’s not gonna eat you.”

“Who’s nervous?” said Bucky, smiling. _I need this job, oh man, what if he doesn’t like me, I’ve got no experience at a newspaper what the hell am I—_ he ran his hand through his hair.

            Becca rolled her eyes as his hair flopped back out of place. “I told you, he already practically agreed to let you take my spot. You’ve got nothing to worry about!”

            “Yeah, but what if—”

            “Hey!” Bucky jumped a foot into the air as a loud, gruff voice sounded from behind the glass. “Are you two going to keep yapping, or are you going to stop wasting my time and come in?”

             Becca gave Bucky a look. “Yes sir, Mr. Mannheimer, we’ll come right in.”

She opened the door and shooed Bucky inside. The office was small and cramped, or maybe it just seemed that way because of the stacks and stacks of books and papers scattered around it, or because of the huge wooden desk that dominated the floor. Behind the desk sat Mr. D. Mannheimer, editor of the _Brooklyn Daily Star_ and Bucky’s potential boss. He wasn’t a large man, but his head was very round and almost bald, and he sported a bushy walrus mustache beneath a small nose. In one stubby-fingered hand, he cupped a hand-rolled cigarette, the kind Bucky used to see the clerks at Engelmann  & Worth’s smoking on their breaks in the alley behind St. Bea’s. The other hand, which had been splayed across a book, now wheeled around to point straight at Bucky’s chest. “So, you’re Rebecca’s brother.” Mr. Mannheimer gave him a long, considering look, then huffed out a breath which made the ends of his moustache flap. “Well, I guess you’re o.k. Not who I would’ve picked for the job, but since we don’t have much time,” here he shot a glance at Becca, who suddenly got very interested in the shiny new ring on her finger, “I don’t have much of a choice. Pay’s five bucks a day; no column, no money. And if I don’t like what you write, don’t like your style, you’re out, no complaining. Deal?”

            “Deal,” said Bucky, reaching out to shake the offered hand. “You won’t regret this, sir, I promise.”

            “Yeah, yeah, you all say that but here I am with my ulcer and my bad heart anyway.” He flapped his hand at the two of them, and Becca jerked her head towards the door. Bucky got the hint, and was halfway out when Mr. Mannheimer called after him: “I can’t give you your own office, and I guess you’ll get your sister’s typewriter, but you’ll have your own desk. _Not_ the one Rebecca had—I have trouble enough with those girls without putting a scruffy-looking masher like you in their office. You’ll go down the hall with whatshisname—the cartoon boy.” Bucky looked back, to see if there was going to be any more clarification. “Go on, hop to it!”

           

“I told you it would be a piece of cake,” said Becca. She turned and led him further down the hall, past more glass doors.

Bucky followed her. “Am I scruffy-looking?” he asked, nudging his sister’s side. Now that he knew he had the job and wasn’t going to be explaining to Ma why they had to eat beans for another week, he felt ten inches taller and more like joking around.

Becca stopped in front of the last door on the hall, and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Well…”

“Oh, come on, sis—this is a new suit and I’ve got so much tonic in my hair you could use me to wax the floor! What more do you want?”

            “You could try a bath,” said Becca. Bucky swiped at her, but she dodged away and swatted him with her handbag. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself, beating up your sister who just got you a new job.” She darted forth to jab at his side and shrieked with laughter as he pinched her. “Stop it, you goon, that’s my arm!”

            “You gotta be faster on your f—” Bucky’s response died on his lips as the door beside them opened. For a second, he blinked, convinced Becca must have given him a real wallop and knocked him into a dream state. _I swear guys like that only exist in magazines,_ he thought, before he could stop himself. The man was tall and blond, with bright blue eyes and a checkered blue-and-white shirt tucked haphazardly into dark slacks.

            “Uh, hi,” said the dream man, looking bemusedly at the scene in front of his door.

            “Hiya, Steve,” said Becca. “Sorry about the noise. This is my brother, Bucky, who’s gonna be taking over Dear Dottie. Mr. M said to put him with you, ‘cause he didn’t want him knocking up his employees.”  Bucky choked, and Steve’s face turned pink. “That was a joke,” said Becca, rolling her eyes. “Gee, Steve, I knew Bucky couldn’t take a blue joke, but I didn’t realize you were training for the priesthood, too.”

            “Ignore her,” said Bucky, “I spend two years in the Navy and she’s the one who starts talking like a sailor.” Becca swatted at him again, and Bucky, faced with a choice between the edge of her handbag and pressing uncomfortably close to Steve, flinched as the bag’s brass buckle caught his ribs.

            “It’s fine,” said Steve, smiling. “I guess you want to see the office?” He opened the door wider and stepped back to let Bucky past him.

            “You go ahead, Buck—I’m gonna go get my typewriter.” Becca disappeared down the hall, and Bucky stepped into his new office.

            “It’s not much,” said Steve, from behind him. Bucky looked around. The office was very small, lit by a hanging lightbulb, and the two desks crammed face-to-face along one wall looked rickety and ancient. But there was a little window with a view of the street, and someone had taken the trouble to pin some pictures up on the walls, drawings of flowers and cityscapes with a few portraits mixed here and there.

            One of the desks was bare, but the other was covered by a big drawing pad, the kind Bucky had always imagined artists carried. Without thinking, Bucky stepped over a few pencils on the ground and went over to look at the drawing half-finished on the pad, of an old woman carrying a bag of groceries. “Hey, this is really good,” he said, leaning to look at it more closely.

            “Thanks,” said Steve, from directly behind him. Bucky started up and saw that Steve was rubbing the back of his neck, and his cheeks were starting to get pink again. Bucky swallowed.

            “No, really, it’s good. You’re the cartoonist?” He stepped resolutely past Steve and went to look out the window. _Play it cool, Barnes_.

            But Steve, apparently, wasn’t interested in helping Bucky keep his thoughts on the right side of the law. He came up next to Bucky and leaned against the other side of the window, looking out at just the right angle so that the sun hit his hair and his very blue eyes. Then he smiled with one side of his mouth, genuine and a little shy. _Fuck._ “Yeah, editorial cartoons mostly. And I do the crossword since old Mr. Battistoli retired. That was his spot,” he continued, nodding at the empty desk. “It’s been empty for a while, but I’m glad to have the company.” Then he frowned slightly, and Bucky watched the little creases in his brow. “What did you say you were doing again?”

            Bucky coughed, finally distracted. _Time to lose his respect_ , he thought. “Well, I’m taking over for Becca, now that she’s getting married, so…”

            “So you’re the new Dear Dottie?”

            “Yep.” The new advice columnist, specializing in romance, family drama, and the gossip of the day. Bucky squared his shoulders, ready for some kind of cheap shot, or worse, a look of disgust.

            But Steve only shrugged. “Well, somebody’s got to do it. And people sure like Dear Dottie, so you’ll be making them happy, I guess.”

            “Yeah, I guess so. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but Becca always says people love to write in.”

            “Plus, you get to read some great stories,” Steve added. “No need to spend your money at the pictures.”

            Bucky started to smile, mostly out of relief that he wasn’t going to lose his job on the first day for having to punch someone over an insult. “That’s another good point. Boy, you should be the advice columnist.”

            Steve raised his eyebrows. “Careful, don’t give Mannheimer any ideas, he’d love to have me doing three people’s work for one guy’s pay.”

            “You know, I’m not sure he knows your name,” said Bucky. “When we were coming down here he just called you the ‘cartoon kid.’ I was expecting Mickey Mouse.”

            Steve laughed, and turned so that his back was against the wall, no longer pretending to be looking out the window instead of having a conversation. “Yeah, he thinks all artists are long-haired pinko beatniks. I oughta warn you, he’ll probably lump you in with me there.”

            “I can wear a beret,” Bucky responded, relaxing a little against the windowsill. Talking to Steve was surprisingly easy, as if they’d known each other for years instead of a handful of minutes. “Learn the bongos, go over to Greenwich Village…” _Subtle, jackass_. “Can’t draw, though, and I don’t think about my hair too much,” he added quickly.

            Luckily, Steve hadn’t noticed anything off. “If you play the bongos in here, I’m gonna move,” he said. “Or maybe I’ll take up the accordion, start the world’s least popular band.”

            As they both started to laugh again, and the sunlight turned Steve’s hair and skin gold, Bucky began to wonder how the hell he was going to survive working in the same office as this man, day in and day out, without saying something stupid and getting arrested for deviancy.

 

 

            Lucky for Bucky’s heart, nerves, and criminal record, Steve Rogers turned out to be not so much a dream man from a magazine as a terminal wise-guy, a stick-in-the-mud, and a class-A pain in the ass, who also happened to have a good head of hair. For the first month of their working together, Steve and Bucky argued over just about everything there was available, from the subjects of Steve’s cartoons, to Bucky’s first attempts to answer the questions of Brooklyn’s lovelorn, to whose turn it was to pick up lunch at the deli around the corner. They fought over who was better, Navy or Marines; over Gandhi, the Marshall Plan, and Humphrey Bogart; over brands of soap, detective novels, and whether the man who swept the street outside their window looked closer to 40 or 50. They also agreed on Truman over Dewey, Sinatra over Crosby, corned beef over ham, and a dozen other things Bucky didn’t even know he had an opinion on. By the time Bucky had been at the _Star_ two months, he felt like he’d known Steve all his life, and he’d almost managed to convince himself that he only thought of him as a very close friend.

           

            Then, one Monday in early January, Steve came into the office coughing up a storm. “Are you alright?” Bucky asked, getting up to help Steve out of his coat. _And since when do you help other guys take off their coats?_ said his brain, a couple seconds too late. Now all he could do was hang up the coat and try to stop himself before he offered to fetch Steve some hot tea, or knit him a sweater.

            “I’m fine,” said Steve, between coughs. “I’ve just got a little bit of cold. It’s the damn heating in my apartment, won’t go on half the time and the walls are paper-thin. I swear I could keep meat frozen on my kitchen table.”

            “You need a new place,” said Bucky, “my house is always boiling, although that might be the seven people and my ma’s constant cooking. I could run it as a sauna, charge admission.”

            Steve shrugged. “I’ve been looking for a while, but on this salary I’m not going to get much better than what I’ve got.” He settled in behind his desk, but didn’t pull out his pencils.

            “I hear you,” said Bucky. “I’d love to move out from my parent’s place, but everywhere I look is too much, and money’s tight as it is.”

            They both fell silent. Bucky picked up the day’s stack of Dear Dottie letters, but didn’t start reading them.

            “You know—”

            “If you—”

They looked at each other, and Steve pressed on. “There’s plenty of places around for two people, at a decent price.”

            “You could get somewhere with decent heat, I could get out from under my folks…” Bucky pretended like he wasn’t already picturing a quiet room somewhere, with no little sisters and no boiling cabbage smell, no hot, jungly heat, only him and his good pal.

            “We already spend most of the day together anyway,” Steve added, thoughtfully. For a second Bucky saw him glance over, something uncharacteristically shy in his eyes. “Well, I’m game for it if you are.”

            “Let’s start looking,” said Bucky.

 

Predictably, the process of choosing an apartment went about as well as any of their joint decisions, with plenty of bickering and name-calling, but eventually they found a place on the third floor of an old office building, above an Irish grocery.

            “You know, I used to work in a store just like that,” said Steve, as they lugged their boxes past the fruit stand and into the front hall.

            “No kidding,” said Bucky, huffing and puffing a little under the weight of what he guessed was Steve’s rock collection. “I bet I did almost the same job in my neighborhood-- shelf-stocking, unloading, that kind of thing?”

            Steve snorted. “Me? Carrying boxes? Not at that age. One good box of watermelons and I’d be squashed flat.” They reached the landing, and Bucky stared at him in disbelief. “Really! Until about seventeen I weighed maybe 110 pounds soaking wet.”

            “No _kidding_ ,” said Bucky again, stupidly. _I want some of whatever they gave you_ , said his useless brain. _Or just some of you_ , said his useless, criminal, useless brain.

            “Yeah,” Steve continued, wrestling open the door to their new apartment. “Actually, it used to be a real problem, me getting sick all the time and my ma having to take care of me, take time off from work, pay for my medicine.” He stepped inside, but instead of setting down his box, he just stood there, looking a little lost in his thoughts.

            There was a pause. “Well, what the hell happened?” Bucky asked, finally.

            “Uh,” Steve shook his head, snapped out of whatever he had been in. “Well, my ma got a good job as a nurse to an older man upstate, a rich guy with a big house, big, y’know, estate—so we moved up there, and I got a real doctor to check me out, and some good food, and I guess what they say about country air and clean living is true, because I just sort of…grew.” He looked down at his arms and legs as if seeing them for the first time. “Then I turned 19, joined the Marines, and…” Once again, he got a faraway look. “Well, I guess I left the last parts of that little guy somewhere in the Pacific.”

            They were silent for a moment, back once again in those deadly few years they both knew but never seemed to talk about. Bucky was briefly thankful for the cold draft blowing in from the hallway. “Well, I like big Steve just fine,” said Bucky. _For Christ’s sake,_ said his brain.

 

They spent the rest of the day unpacking and arranging things around the apartment’s two rooms. Bucky tried to crack jokes and make the work go quickly, but Steve stayed subdued into the evening, lost in memories Bucky could only guess at. Finally, as Steve nailed the last picture he had brought with him up over the threadbare sofa, Bucky brought out the big guns. “Hey Steve, want to help me look over these Dear Dottie letters?”

            Reading over the letters together was something they had started doing in the office, when Bucky found a particularly good story, or needed help with a tricky problem. Now, Steve visibly perked up as Bucky pulled a sheaf of letters out of his briefcase, and Bucky’s dumb heart perked up, too. _Don’t get carried away, this is still Steve Rogers, pain in the ass_ , he thought to himself. _Just because you live together now doesn’t mean you need to start mooning over him_. He settled down on the couch, deliberately far from Steve, but as soon as he sat down, Steve spread his arm along the back of the seat. His expression said he was doing it to take up space and piss Bucky off, but it still made him feel stupidly happy.

            Bucky shot him a look, and started to read. _“Dear Dottie,_

_I read your column every week, and you always know how to help a girl out when she’s in a tough spot. Well, I’ve got a doozy of a problem. It’s like this. I’ve been going steady with a boy for two years now, and it’s going so good that we’re talking about tying the knot. My folks like him, his folks like me, and he’s got a good job keeping the books at a big department store, so we wouldn’t have trouble making ends meet. The only thing is, I hate his bird. He’s got this big old parrot he brought back with him from the service, and all it ever does is scream at me and try to bite the guests. But my special friend just loves it to pieces, and any time I hint that maybe our marriage should be bird-free, he gets upset and doesn’t speak to me for days. Last week I caught him dressing it up in a little suit-jacket, and I’m worried that if he does propose, he’s going to want it in the wedding party. What can I tell him that will make him understand how I feel? Yours sincerely, Engaged to a Birdbrain.”_

            “That’s a tough one,” said Steve. “I can’t decide if she needs a new boyfriend or a good brand of animal poison.”

            Bucky snorted. “Becca will skin me if I start using her column to advocate animal extermination. Plus, I’m sure I’ll get fifteen letters the next day from the Brooklyn Large Bird Society about how I’m a menace to birds everywhere. Nah, I’m just going to give her the standard.”

            “Sit him down and have a talk and everything will turn out ok?”

            “You got it,” said Bucky, setting the letter aside on the coffee table. As he did so, Steve propped his big feet up right beside it, and when Bucky looked back, he was wearing another shit-eating grin. “Get your big canoes off our new table.”

            “Never,” said Steve. “Can’t a guy be comfortable in his own home?”

            Bucky rolled his eyes, but he was glad that Steve had cheered up some. “Want to hear the next one? She signed it ‘Ready to Burst,’ so you know it’s going to be good.” In response, Steve just settled deeper into the couch cushions, as if he was about to listen to his favorite radio show. Bucky’s heart tightened a little, and he reached for the next letter, which was hand-written in a delicate script on cream paper.

            “ _Dear Dottie,_ ” Bucky began. “ _I’ve noticed you never seem to get a lot of questions about sex—_ ”

            Steve burst out laughing as Bucky trailed off. “No, no, go on,” he said, between chuckles. “This sounds like a good one.”

            Bucky cleared his throat, his face burning. As a matter of fact, he did get an astounding number of letters about sex, but he had enough self-preservation not to read them aloud to Steve. Bravely, he plowed on. “ _I’ve noticed you never seem to get a lot of questions about sex, but I’m hoping you’ll make an exception in my case, since this is sort of psychological anyway. My problem with sex is, I’m not having any.”_ Steve let out another deep laugh, and Bucky almost forgave the letter for embarrassing him, if it made Steve laugh like that. “ _I guess that’s not so unusual, but I’m a fairly attractive young woman, and I’ve been engaged for three years now to a nice man. We’re both modern, and we’ve even discussed moving in together before the wedding. The only trouble is, whenever we’re alone, all he likes to do is sit by me and listen to me talk._ ” Bucky swallowed; suddenly, he was very aware of Steve sitting next to him. “ _We don’t even hold hands. I’ve tried to make the first move myself, but all that happens is he gets very uncomfortable and spends the next night out with his buddies. When I try to talk to him about it directly, he gets flustered, and tells me that he likes me very much, and spends the night out with his buddies. In fact, whatever I try to do, he ends up spending the night out with his buddies. I have met his friends and they are all, like him, very intelligent, gentle, and soft-spoken, so I don’t worry that they go out dancing with other girls. All they do is visit each other and sometimes go to art shows in the city._ By now, Bucky was pretty sure what was up with the author’s fiancé. He shifted a little uncomfortably, and wondered how the hell he was going to answer this one. He cleared his throat again, and continued, “ _But to be frank I am just about fed up with his shyness. What tips do you have for seducing a man you’re already going to marry? Sincerely, Ready to Burst.”_

From the other side of the couch, Steve was quiet. Bucky tapped the letter against his chin. _I wonder if I’ve met the guy?_ He didn’t think he had any friends of that kind who were engaged, but you never really did know. Besides, he hadn’t really been hanging around that crowd for, well, for a while, now that he thought about it.

            Steve stood up all of a sudden. “Another tough one,” he said, crossing over to the kitchenette. Bucky couldn’t see his face, but somehow the set of his shoulders and the way he held his neck with a broad hand made him look awkward, almost ashamed. But that didn’t make any sense—Bucky must have been projecting his own discomfort. He tried to relax, focus on what he was going to write to this lady instead of on Steve’s shoulders and hands, on his laugh, and on the way all of it could disappear if he let himself go too much.

            Funnily enough, when Steve spoke again, his voice also sounded a little forced, like he was trying to hold something back. “Time for dinner?’ he said, rustling through the pots and pans Bucky had previously shoved into their tiny new cabinets. “I think your ma’s stew should heat up in a couple of minutes.”

            “Sure,” said Bucky, jumping up to help him as a tower of glasses wobbled dangerously on its shelf. “I can sort out the rest of these later.”

            The sun started to set as they messed around in the kitchen, failing to light the stove a few times and then accidentally shattering the butter dish. Eventually, they settled down at the scrubbed wooden table Steve had brought from his old place, and ate the stew Bucky’s ma had left them. His ma was a good cook, and Steve seemed to enjoy his dinner, but all Bucky could think about, in a rush of emotion that left him dazed and giddy, was how goddamn glad he was to be sharing his dinner and his home with Steve, and how impossible it was to imagine life without him, even if they didn’t even hold hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original idea for this came after I read a compilation of excerpts from the Bintel Brief, a long-running advice column in the Jewish Daily Forward, one of the most important New York papers during the turn of the century and a cornerstone of the Yiddish Press. All the letters are great and sometimes funny and important and I totally recommend reading them.
> 
> I'm also just crazy about the diversity and life in postwar and early 20th century immigrant communities in New York, so there's a lot of that coming through, hopefully not too preachy or pedantic. Obviously I have trouble leaving history alone even when I'm writing fanfiction. 
> 
> I guess this could be considered part of my bigger "what if Steve went to the Pacific?" thought train, which I might take down a different trouser of time somewhere else. 
> 
> Any kind of feedback is awesome, please let me know what you liked and didn't like and stay tuned for more very soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next piece! Thanks for all the positive feedback on the last chapter.
> 
> I realized as I was posting this that I never checked when name-brand aspirin was invented? I apologize for this grievous mistake and I hope you can forgive me. Enjoy.

A few weeks later, as Steve and Bucky were walking into work, they were stopped by a bellow from Mr. Mannheimer’s office. “Dottie! Dottie, is that you I hear?”

 “I think he means you,” said Steve.

 Bucky’s stomach dropped. Their boss didn’t often interact with his employees, and when he did, it was never good. “Yes, sir, Mr. Mannheimer, I’m out here.”

“Well, stop wasting my time and come in here! What, you think I was calling your name for fun?”

“Yes, sir, right away.” Bucky slunk into the office, trying to figure out what he’d done recently that could have gotten him fired. To his surprise, he felt Steve slide into the office behind him before he was able to close the door.

“What the hell is this?” said Mr. Mannheimer, tapping his hand against what Bucky recognized as his next column, which had been a couple of inches short. “I don’t pay you for short columns, you know.”

 “I’m sorry, sir, we just haven’t been getting a whole lot of letters lately. People have fewer problems, I guess?” He tried a weak laugh.

 “What? Shut up. Look, do I need to tell you how to do everything?” Bucky stared at him. “Write your own damn letters! Make something up!” Bucky stared at him. “Oh, for god’s sake, get out. Just give me another few inches by the end of the day.” Mr. Mannheimer seemed to notice Steve for the first time. “And what the hell is he doing here? Get out!”

They got out. When they made it back to their office, Bucky sat down hard in his chair. Steve leaned up against the side of his desk, looking down at him. “Well, at least you didn’t get fired.”

Bucky looked back up at him. “Yeah, but now I have to pull two real-sounding letters out of my ass. I’m no writer, Steve, it’s going to sound like horseshit.”

“Ah, come on, it could be fun!” Steve nudged Bucky’s leg with the tip of his shoe. “You read dozens of these letters a week, you’ve got a good imagination, you could probably write one in your sleep.”

 “Get your shoes off my slacks,” said Bucky. Steve, poker-faced, placed his entire foot on Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky almost passed out. _So much for playing it cool_ , he thought to himself. The tip of Steve’s shoe pressed a little too close to the inside of his thigh, and the way he was staring down at Bucky, with the morning sunlight coming through his hair…“I have to hit the head.” Bucky jumped up, dislodging Steve’s foot. “Want to help me, come up with some ideas while I’m gone?”

 Bucky fled into the hallway. As he turned to shut the door, he saw Steve still perched on the edge of his desk, looking pensive.

 

Bucky took his time on the way to the powder room, stopping to chat with a couple of the guys from down the hall who covered the local news, looking in on a typist friend of Becca’s who’d asked about her upcoming wedding. Mostly he lingered in front of the spotted mirror above the tiny sink, staring himself down. _Get a grip, Barnes_ , he told himself. _Steve is your friend, maybe—definitely the best friend you’ve ever had. You can live with him, and you can work with him, and you can even, well, you can even love him but you just can’t do anything to show it. So get a grip, get a grip, and go back to the office, and try not to faint the next time he touches you._ He breathed deeply through his nose, gave himself one last look, and headed out into the hall.

 

When he got back, Steve was sitting at his own desk, but instead of his drawing pad he had an old notebook open on his lap. He looked up when Bucky came in. “I’ve been working on one. How’s this: she’s ready to marry her fella, but the only problem is, he likes to dress up as something strange in the bedroom.”

 Bucky thought about it. “Charlie Chaplin.”

 “What?” Steve laughed, leaning back in his chair.

Bucky felt his shoulders loosen as he slipped back into the rhythm of their conversations. “No really,” he said, already putting a new sheet into his typewriter. “He dresses up as Charlie Chaplin, and she’s ok with that, only when he takes off his hat he looks like ol’ Adolf and she’s a patriot.”

 When they’d both stopped laughing, Bucky found that Steve was looking at him intently. “You know, you could do this for a living,” he said.

Bucky frowned. “What do you think I do it for now, applause?”

Steve threw a crumpled ball of paper at his head. “Not this, you idiot, I mean, you know, coming up with stories. You’re good at it.”

“Sure,” said Bucky, “I’m a regular O. Henry. Maybe I’ll send this one into the _New Yorker_ , huh?”

“Ah, come on, Bucky, I’m serious!”

 “Tell you what,” said Bucky, leaning forward on his elbows. “I’ll write a real story, for publication and everything, but only if you illustrate it.”

Steve made a face. “Stop kidding around, you know I’m just a cut-rate cartoonist.”

“Bullshit, Steve, and if you want me to try out your big plans for me, you’re going to have to come along.”

They stared at each other across the desks. Finally, Steve’s face creased into a small smile. “Well, I guess we’ll be working together for a while, huh.”

“That’s right,” said Bucky, who suddenly felt like he was missing something.

“Partners, you might even say.”

Bucky licked his lips. “Uh, sure.”

Steve had an odd, measuring look on his face. “Well, so long as we’re on the same page.”

 

Around five o’clock, Bucky realized that he was going to have to stay late to finish bulking up his previous column. Steve left at six, claiming he had some business to take care of with a neighbor. The office somehow seemed cavernous without him, and Bucky worked fast by the light of their single lamp to get everything done so that he could go home. As he was locking the office door, he heard the boys from the news desk down the hall.

“Barnes! Hey, Barnes!” Bobby O’Connor, a short, squat guy with a puff of reddish-brown hair who had been a year or so ahead of Bucky at St. Bea’s, waved him over to them. “How’d today’s love column go?”

  “Ah, it was ok,” said Bucky, scrubbing the back of his neck. “People ask all kinds of questions, half the time I don’t even know what they’re talking about.”

Leo Carcetti, who Bucky mostly knew from his reputation as the best dancer in the neighborhood, slapped a hand on his shoulder companionably. “You know, sometimes I think you’re the luckiest guy in the city, with that gig of yours.”

“How’s that?” asked Bucky.

“You get all the inside information about what the dames are looking for! You know how their minds work!” Leo smiled broadly beneath his pencil mustache.

Bucky chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a real help with the ladies.”

They started out down the hall, Bucky stuck between the two newsmen. “Listen,” said Bobby, “You gotta come out with us, tell us some of your hard-earned secrets.”

 “Yeah, we’re heading to McNamara’s now,” said Leo, “you should come along.”

“Nah, I’ve got to go home,” said Bucky, automatically.

“Why, you got somebody waiting for you?” Bobby joked, elbowing him in the ribs.

“No, no, just tired,” Bucky replied.

“Well, tomorrow, then,” said Leo, as they stepped out onto the street.

Bucky opened his mouth to say no again, but then he thought about it. What did he have to come home to? Steve, of course, Steve sitting in their living room, in the second-hand wingback next to the radio maybe, sketchpad on his knee, the light from their old lamp turning his strong lines into a soft saint’s face, golden halo and everything. Bucky would come through the door, and Steve would look up at him. Bucky would crack some kind of dumb joke and Steve would smile, and Bucky would shuck off his coat and cross over to Steve and—

  And what? And nothing, that was what. Bucky wouldn’t lean over and Steve wouldn’t tip his head back, smiling, and Bucky wouldn’t answer his smile with a soft kiss. Those little things that Bucky wanted more than anything in the world were never going to happen. He couldn’t touch Steve and he couldn’t be with him. They would be friends, and eventually Steve would find a gorgeous gal and settle down and Bucky would be alone. It was time to put some of his eggs in a different basket. “Sure, I’ll go with you tomorrow night.”

Bobby whooped and Leo clapped Bucky on the back again. “Between the three of us, we’ll paint the town red!”

Bucky smiled back, though his chest felt hollow.

 

All the next day felt off. Steve and Bucky came into work, as usual, and joked around, as usual. Bucky finished up answering the week’s letters and Steve put the last touches on a cartoon about Truman. When he showed it to Bucky to ask for his opinion Bucky laughed, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of aimless sadness that had settled into his bones sometime the day before.

Bucky had neglected to mention to Steve that he’d made plans with the boys from the newsroom, so when quitting time came and Bucky didn’t immediately respond to Steve’s question about supper, he got a funny look. “What, you don’t like my chicken all of a sudden?”

“Your chicken is dry,” said Bucky automatically. He chewed his lip. “Actually, I don’t think I’m going to be around for supper. Bobby O’Connor and his buddy Leo invited me out with them.”

“Oh,” said Steve, pausing with his coat halfway on. He blinked a couple of times. “Oh, o.k., well, that’s great. Nice guys.”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, not looking at him. “So I think I’m just going to stick around here, meet up with them.”

“Alright, well,” Steve picked up his hat and briefcase, “I’ll uh, I’ll see you at home then.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you.” He heard Steve stop just over the threshold, as if he wanted to turn around and say something more. Instead, he left, and Bucky tried not to think about how quiet things were without him.

 

McNamara’s was a dive on the bottom floor of an old-style tenement, the kind Bucky’s folks had lived in just before he was born, and the kind that was in the background of the one picture Steve had of his ma. Inside, it was smoky and dimly-lit, but there was lively music playing and the man behind the bar greeted Leo and Bobby by name.

They sat on stools by the bar, Bucky once again sandwiched in between the other two. Leo called for a couple of drinks and they made small talk, Bobby pressing Bucky for tips from his column and Leo laughing along good-naturedly. A couple of drinks in Bucky got into the swing of things, and soon he was running his mouth with the best of them.

“Hey, Barnsey, how come we don’t do this more?” asked Bobby towards the end of the night, one arm slung loose over Bucky’s shoulder. They had all had a few, maybe more than a few, and it took a little while for the question to make its way to Bucky’s brain.

“Y’know, I have no clue,” he said, finally, trying to focus on figuring out if there actually was any more alcohol in his glass, or if it was just melted ice. “I’m havin a great time.”

“You’re a great guy,” said Bobby, leaning over on one elbow, very intently. “An’ great advice with the broads. Real good stuff.”

“Least I can do,” said Bucky. He couldn’t taste much alcohol in the glass, but maybe it was just watered down? _It didn’t hurt to be thorough_ , he thought to himself, through the haze.

Bobby slid off of his barstool and caught himself, barely, against the bar. “Hey Barnsey,” he said again, slyly. “You got a dame?”

“Nah,” said Bucky. He opened his mouth to say more, but then years of self-preservation slapped him hard upside the head and he stayed quiet. _Sweet mother Mary, am I drunk._ He tried shaking his head, but that just made everything less clear.

Meanwhile, Bobby had given up on the barstool entirely. He came to stand by Bucky, swaying slightly. “No shit,” he said, “a guy like you with no dame?” His brow creased with confusion. We all figured you had a steady hiding somewhere, pressing your pants and—and— dusting the, the plates, or, y’know, whatever they do.”

_Steve does the laundry_ , Bucky thought. He could no longer tell if Bobby was the one swaying, or if the whole world was just going around and around. “Nah,” he said again.

“Gee,” said Bobby, “and this whole time I thought you were sick over someone.”

“Hey, where’d Leo get to?” Bucky tried looking around for their friend, but shapes had started to melt together and he couldn’t really pick any faces out of the crowd.

“I even put money on it,” said Bobby, undeterred. “That’s ten bucks I just lost.”

“Sorry,” said Bucky. His searching hand landed on something that felt like his hat. Bobby looked like he was about to keep talking, so Bucky beat him to it. “I think I oughta go home,” he said, talking slowly so as to get all the words out in the right order. “I gotta thing, family lunch tomorrow morning.”

Bobby made some noises that sounded like agreement, and Bucky clapped a hand on his shoulder before grabbing his coat from where it had fallen. On his way out the door, he thought he might have heard Leo’s voice calling after him, but he ignored it.

Luckily, it would have taken a lot more than a few drinks to get Bucky lost in this part of Brooklyn, and by the time he was halfway home, the cool night air had started to clear away some of the alcoholic fog. It was a clear night, not as late as Bucky had thought it was, and though there weren’t many people out on the streets he could see lights burning in most windows, silhouettes flicking in and out of view like a broken reel at the pictures.

Passing by the waterfront, he heard the sound of music coming from a half-open door, jazzy and slow. The light spilling out onto the sidewalk was vaguely colored, a dim, dusty violet splotch in his path. He realized that his feet had taken him home by a route he was usually careful to avoid. This strip and that bar were where he had spent too many nights, before and mostly after the war when he had been alone. _As if you’re not alone now,_ he thought to himself, _as if you’re not just as hopeless as you were then_. He looked across the street, to a row of lit windows. The light was bright, but Bucky thought the light in his and Steve’s apartment was warmer, gentler. _Maybe it’s a different brand of light bulb,_ said his brain, _maybe you’re just drunk. One man doesn’t actually make the light brighter. Light is light, and if you keep thinking like that you’re going to be looking at a pretty pitch-black future without him._

On the next block, against his better judgement, Bucky dropped into a grocery that was open late and bought himself a bottle. The lady behind the counter looked at first like she didn’t want to sell it to him, but Bucky turned on the charm and had her smiling as she handed it over the counter to him. He tipped his hat and unscrewed the cap as he left the store. _Coward’s way out_ , he thought to himself, just before the alcohol hit his tongue.

He tossed the bottle, still half-full, into an alley just outside their building. Things were really hazy now, but he felt a whole lot better. In fact he could hardly remember what he’d been upset about before. Or where he’d been, or who he’d been with, or anything except maybe his name and that he needed to make it up the stairs and through the door to see Steve. He leaned his full weight against the door in lieu of a knock, and when the door opened, he stumbled forward to land against something solid and warm.

“Jesus!” said Steve, from somewhere just above Bucky’s head.

“Hi there,” said Bucky. “I c’n hear the vibra—vibirirations in your chest when you talk.” He leaned against Steve more heavily, his eyes drifting closed slightly.

“Jesus,” said Steve again, more quietly. Bucky felt his chest ripple as he swallowed. “Come in from the hallway before somebody comes along.”

Bucky didn’t move, so Steve put a hand on his back and steered them over the threshold together. When he had to reach around Bucky to shut the door, Bucky steadied himself by grabbing a fistful of Steve’s shirt. “Jesus,” said Steve again.

“Stop it,” said Bucky, mumbling a little. “Y’r gonna get in trouble with the big guy.”

 “Mr. Mannheimer?”

 “God.” Bucky realized his eyes were open again, and Steve was staring down at him with his gaze full of something and his mouth just slightly open in a way Bucky knew meant he was about to laugh. “Don’t laugh a’me.”

 “Wasn’t going to,” said Steve.

“Yeah, right,” said Bucky. “I know your faces.” He reached up unsteadily and tapped a finger against Steve’s forehead. “I know what goes on in that head’a yours.”

“Bucky,” said Steve.

“Hmm?” Bucky let his hand fall back heavily onto Steve’s shoulder.

Steve drew a breath—Bucky felt his broad chest contract with it— and stopped, mouth open, looking at Bucky. Things felt frozen and too significant. Bucky couldn’t blink.

“You’re drunk,” said Steve.

The spell was broken. “I know that,” said Bucky, feeling his head start to sag. “I did it myself.”

 “Smartass,” Steve said, finally stepping away from Bucky. He had to tug on Bucky’s hand gently to get him to let go of his sleeve, and where his fingers brushed against Bucky’s knuckles, he left behind a trail of warmth.

Without Steve to support him, Bucky stumbled forward. “Whoops,” he said, catching himself again with one hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Guess I’m going to need some help getting around.” He could sort of remember having a good reason for not touching Steve too much, but for the life of him he couldn’t guess what it was.

Steve sighed, deeper than Bucky might have expected in response to something that was supposed to be a joke. “You know, I didn’t sign on to be your guide dog,” he said, slinging Bucky’s arm around his broad shoulders and steering the two of them towards their tiny, shared bedroom. “Or your maid,” he said, after Bucky felt his hat slip from his hand and onto the floor somewhere near the kitchenette.

“Yeah, but I keep you around anyway,” Bucky replied. Now that he was safe home, with Steve quite literally by his side, everything seemed kind of soft and alright. “I guess I’ve started to like you.”

The world shifted slightly as Steve lowered Bucky into a sitting position on the edge of his bed. When he slipped his arm from around Bucky’s shoulders, Bucky may have let out a small whimper, though the combination of alcohol, the late hour, and a full day’s work was making it hard to tell what was real and what was in his head. The image of Steve kneeling in front of him didn’t help him sort it out—that one could easily have been from one of Bucky’s more regular dreams, though in the dream he wasn’t usually untying Bucky’s shoes while muttering things under his breath. Still, it was nice, nice enough that Bucky relaxed and slumped back against the wall, staring down at the top of Steve’s blond head.

Steve finished taking off his shoes and looked up. Bucky thought he was about to make some stupid joke, but he stopped when he met Bucky’s look. If Bucky had been even a hair less drunk he might have tried to stop himself from thinking what he was thinking, from picturing another night when Steve might be kneeling in front of him like this, hand flat on his thigh like that, leaning forward…

  Steve swallowed heavily. Bucky couldn’t quite make out the look on his face as he stood up slowly, forcing Bucky to crane his neck because he didn’t want to look away from him. The shift caused Bucky to fall back onto the bed, clumsily, arms and legs splayed. At some point in the night his shirt had come all untucked, and his hair was falling into his eyes.

Steve reached up with one hand to grab the chain of the light. “Jesus, Buck,” he said, raking his eyes over Bucky on the bed, just before he switched off the light. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

 

When Bucky woke up the next morning, head pounding and mouth filled with cotton, it was to an empty room. The sunlight pouring in through the window told him it was later than usual, maybe around ten or eleven. Across the room, Steve’s bed was in typical military order, sheets tucked tight, pajamas folded. Somehow the sight of it, warm in the sun, made Bucky’s head hurt a little less. Then he saw the glass of water, complete with saucer and aspirin besides, standing next to the leg of his bed, and his heart started to hurt instead.

He took the aspirin and drank the water slowly. As he swallowed, he ran over the events of the night before in his head. _I hope I acted like a regular drunk moron instead of doing something really stupid. What was I thinking, getting soused like that? I could have done anything_. He closed his eyes again, breathing deep through his nose and willing the headache to go away. Would Steve have left him aspirin if Bucky had tried to come on to him? Maybe. _Steve’s a goddamn saint_ , Bucky thought to himself. _Even if he’d packed up and left in the night he would’ve stopped to take care of me one last time._ Bucky suddenly noticed how quiet it was in the apartment. He could already see that Steve wasn’t lying on his bed the way he usually did in the mornings, because he claimed the light from the window was the best for his sketching. Bucky couldn’t hear anything in the bathroom, either, and nobody was moving around in the kitchen.

All of a sudden Bucky’s headache was gone, replaced by a bolt of fear. _You’re being an idiot, Barnes, Steve wouldn’t just up and leave. Even if you did try to feel him up or said you loved him or something._ Bucky tried a few deep breaths, but the quiet was closing in on him. He jumped up from the bed before he could think about it, ready to run into the living room and see it empty, maybe with a note on the table or maybe stripped of all its furniture, or maybe with a cop come to take him to the slammer or--

“Bucky! What is it?” Bucky skidded into the living room and almost fell over the kitchen table, but he forgot the sharp pain in his side and his hangover as soon as he saw Steve there, sitting on the couch. He had his notebook open on his lap instead of his sketchpad and he looked startled, but besides that it could have been any other morning. “What is it?” he asked again, starting to get up. “Jesus, Bucky what happened?”

“What?” said Bucky, going limp with relief.

Steve flipped his notebook shut, dumped it on the couch, and crossed over to him. “Why the hell did you come running in here? Are you ok?”

“Oh,” said Bucky. “Oh no, I’m alright.” He scrambled to come up with an excuse, but it was hard to put a full sentence together when he’d just woken up and had a terrible hangover and had to look up at Steve leaning over him, close enough to see the little freckles on his neck and smell that toothpaste he used. “Just, uh, just wanted to see if I was going to get any dizzier.”

Steve looked at him like he was an idiot, but that just meant things were really back to normal. “Well, there’s still some breakfast, in case you want to see if you’re going to get any sicker, too.” He gestured to a covered plate next to the stove, then stepped away from Bucky, leaving a warm patch that smelled like sunlight and Pepsodent.

Food was maybe the one thing Bucky wanted more at that moment than being close to Steve. He went over to investigate, tugging aside Steve’s old flowery dishcloth to reveal a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon.  “Steve, you’re a lifesaver.”

“I try,” said Steve, from the couch. Bucky saw that he’d picked up his notebook again, about to start writing. But then he darted a quick glance over at Bucky and, strangely, put the pen down.

“Who’re you writing to?” Bucky asked, in between mouthfuls of egg.

Steve picked up his pen again. “Just an old friend.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No, just…just someone from way back.” He tapped his pen against his lips, but didn’t write anything.

From where Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table, it almost looked like Steve was blushing.  _Trick of the light_ , he thought to himself. “A lady friend?” he said, before he could stop himself.

“No!” Now Steve really looked startled. “No, come on, Buck, nothing like that.”

 “Uh uh,” said Bucky. “I bet. I leave you alone for one night and suddenly you’re Casanova.”

“Honest to God,” said Steve, “It’s just an old buddy from the service. You don’t have to be--” He cut himself off. “I mean, I’m not hiding some dame from you. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Hey, I know that.” Bucky had been trying to crack a joke to hide the flips his stomach did when he thought about Steve writing to some woman, but now it looked like Steve was for some reason as agitated as he was. “C’mon, Steve, I know that. I was just kidding you.”

 Steve’s face and shoulders relaxed a little, and he laughed. “Sorry, Bucky, I don’t know what got into me this morning.”

 “Finish your letter,” said Bucky, “and cheer up, ‘cause hangover or no, today’s the day I promised I would take a look at Mrs. Saez’s plumbing, and I’m going to need your help with it.” Steve groaned, and Bucky threw a napkin at his head, laughing.

 

The next week, spring finally decided it was time to show it’s face in Brooklyn. The trees started to bloom, the sun shone warmer than before, and Bucky began to make plans for a trip down to the beach the next time he and Steve had a free weekend. Steve played along, though Bucky caught him a few times grumbling about the time and the expense.

“We won’t even have to pay for the train,” he said on Wednesday afternoon, after he had come back from a long lunch spent at his aunt’s house a few blocks over. “My cousin Charlie says we can borrow his Packard, so long as we pitch in for the gas. We could drive down to Jersey, if we wanted.”

 Across the room, Steve booed. “Aw, Bucky, I don’t want to go to Jersey.” He had said no to coming along with Bucky for lunch, saying he had too much work to catch up on, and his desk was covered with the remnants of his sandwich.

 “Clean up your desk,” said Bucky, “I don’t listen to advice from slobs.”

 “That’s a lie and you know it,” said Steve, but he started to sweep up his crumbs anyway. “C’mon, why do you want to go to Jersey when there’s a perfectly good beach at the end of the line?”

“Tough luck,” said Bucky, sitting down at his desk. “We’re going this weekend.” He thumbed through the stack of letters he still had to answer. “Man, is my memory going,” he said. “I could have sworn I only had two left instead of three.” Steve only hummed in response. Bucky guessed he was still grumpy about Jersey. Well, he could sulk all he wanted, but Bucky was going to get his trip.

 He finished up the letters quickly, and was ready to leave even before Steve was, which was funny. Actually, now that Bucky thought about it, Steve had been off all afternoon, working slow not talking a mile a minute like he usually did. Bucky glanced across the room and saw the set of his shoulders, tense but not too tense. _He’s anxious about something? Upset?_ He sighed. “Hey.” Steve looked up at him almost too quickly. “We don’t have to go if you really don’t want to.” 

 Steve looked briefly confused, then his expression cleared. “To Jersey? No, it’s alright,” he said. “I could use a change of pace.”

“Really?” said Bucky. “Because you seem upset.”

“I’m not upset,” said Steve.

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not upset! I’m just slow today.”

 “Uh-huh.”

“I am! Look, I’m done.” He put down his pencil and closed his sketchbook.

“If you’re upset, you can tell me,” said Bucky.

 “Bucky, for the last time, I’m not upset!” Steve stood up and began packing up his things. “How were your letters today?”

“Fine,” said Bucky. “The usual.” He wasn’t convinced Steve wasn’t still mad at him, but Steve was looking more normal now and he would take what he could get.

“Nothing good at all?” Steve asked, handing Bucky his coat and hat from the stand by the door.

“Same old, same old,” said Bucky, taking his hat from Steve’s hand and, as a special treat to himself for being patient, letting their fingers brush along the brim.

 Steve must not have noticed the contact, because when he let go of the hat he stayed close to Bucky, close enough that they brushed against each other in the doorway and then in the hall. Bucky savored it until they were out in the street, and then put a few more inches between them, even though it felt like losing blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is appreciated! Only one chapter left and I hope that you guys can stick with me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Part III. It's a little unedited, but this whole think has been kind of off-the-cuff, not my most organized stuff. Hope you enjoy.

The next day, Bucky had barely managed to put a new sheet in his typewriter before someone knocked at the office door, calling for him. Bucky recognized it as Lucia, one of the typists, a friend of Becca’s who was always nice to him when he stopped by the typing pool. When Bucky opened the door, she looked a little frazzled. “Hiya, Bucky,” she said, smiling up at him. “Gotta letter for you, from Mr. M. himself.” She handed him a sheet of yellowish note paper, wrapped around something bulkier.

“A note?” said Bucky, taking it. “What’s he writing me notes for?”

 “What’d you do now?” Steve called from the back of the room.

Lucia waved at him over Bucky’s shoulder. “Hi, Steve! I don’t think he did anything wrong. He didn’t seem any angrier than usual.” She bounced on her heels a little. “Say, Bucky,” she continued, “You heard anything else about Becca’s wedding plans? Last she told me they had trouble booking the hall at St. Bea’s. You want me to talk to my brother about getting space over at Visitation?”

“Eddie’s folks got the Dockworker’s Local to let them use their banquet hall,” said Bucky, “But thanks anyway. That was a real headache for a little while.”

“No kidding,” said Lucia. “I’ve only been going with Ricky for a couple of months and I’m already telling him to start looking for reception halls.” She sighed. “Well, you let me know if she needs anything. Or if you need anything! Remember, if you ever need a date I’ve got two swell sisters I’d love to get out of the house.”

“Gee,” said Bucky, “I’ll think about it.”

“Do think about it!” said Lucia, tapping him on the shoulder and turning to leave. “Either one of you!” she called, as Bucky was shutting the door.

“I worked here for almost a year before you showed up and nobody ever comes to see _me_ ,” Steve complained, as Bucky dropped himself back into his chair.

“That’s because you’re a reclusive artist,” said Bucky. “Not wanting to be bothered about someone’s lonely sisters is part of your mystique.”

“I don’t get letters from the boss, either, unless they’re big notes across my drawings that just say ‘TOO RED’ or ‘NOT FUNNY.’”

Bucky had almost forgotten about Mr. Mannheimer’s note, caught up thinking about wedding arrangements and how best to turn down either one of the Lebron sisters. Now he unwrapped it. The notepaper had been wrapped around a small envelope, addressed to “Dear Dottie, c/o the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.” Seeing nothing unusual, Bucky turned to his boss’s note. The handwriting was surprisingly small and cramped, but it was still definitely written by Mr. Mannheimer. “Dottie— mail girl brought this,” Bucky read, out loud so that Steve could hear. “Response to yr. letter of yesterday. First time response received by Eagle. Ansr it keep it going sell more papers people follow the shlock.” He studied the page. “Then there’s a couple of smudges and scribbles, but I don’t think they’re for me.”

He looked up. Across the room Steve was focused very intently on his sketchpad, and Bucky couldn’t tell if he’d been listening or not. It happened sometimes, when Steve was absorbed in something, that it almost seemed like he didn’t hear what Bucky was saying, or at least didn’t want to respond. Bucky had noticed it happening more and more lately, at odd moments in regular conversations that he was at a loss to explain.

Instead of getting a headache trying to understand why Steve sometimes drifted off and looked embarrassed or intent, Bucky turned to the envelope. The letter inside was written on a paper that seemed familiar, but he guessed that made sense—Mannheimer’s note had said it was a response to a letter he had answered yesterday. He unfolded it, and saw smooth, even handwriting that was familiar to him, probably from the previous letter.

_Dear Dottie,_ it read. _I wrote to you a few days ago with a question and quite frankly I am unsatisfied with the response. I asked about what to do with a sticky romantic situation involving a dear friend of mine._ Bucky thought back to the day before, and remembered. The letter on this paper had been a question from a lady who said she was in love with her best friend. Bucky remembered reading that and trying very hard not to look across the room to where Steve had been sitting, blond head lit up by the noontime sunlight. For a minute, he’d thought he’d found a kindred spirit in the letter-writer, but then the lady had said she thought her friend loved her too, and Steve wasn’t that kind of guy. Or at least Bucky was pretty sure he wasn’t. Bucky had tried to write back the standard, but maybe a little bit of his own feelings had made the response too bitter.

The letter continued, _You told me I should just wait a little while for my friend to sort himself out, and so long as I was patient and kept showing my interest in little ways he would come around. Well, I tried, but my friend is real stubborn and I think he’s going to need a little bit more of a push. I dropped a pretty big hint his way but he just couldn’t figure it out, maybe he’s not smart enough, I don’t know. What else do you have for me? Sincerely, Silent Romantic._

Bucky put the letter down. Something was niggling at the edge of his brain, as if there was something about this situation he was missing. But what could it possibly be? It was a letter like any one of the dozens of letters he saw every month; same story, same questions, same straightforward problems so unlike anything Bucky ever had to deal with. But even so, there was something about it that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Across the room, Steve coughed suddenly. “Everything ok?” He was looking at Bucky over their desks, directly, with a kind of look that Bucky had only seen once or twice—clear yet somehow shy, full of a communication Bucky wasn’t quite able to understand. Again, Bucky noticed a little bit of pink around his cheeks, and he was tapping his pencil restlessly against the edge of his desk.

“Just fine,” said Bucky. _Or as fine as it’s ever going to be,_ he thought to himself, _as long as I have to tell other people how easy it is to fix a problem when I could get thrown in jail for doing it myself._ He sighed, and saw Steve swallow a little. “Really, I’m fine. Just someone complaining about my advice. Guess I’d better bang out a friendly answer.” He turned back to his typewriter.

“That’s it?” Steve asked. “That’s all that was bothering you?”

Bucky looked back at him, confused. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “You can read the letter if you want.” He pushed it across the desk, but Steve didn’t take it.

Instead, he got up from his desk, rather quickly. “That’s alright.” Bucky saw his fingers were still tapping against his thigh, but now he looked almost annoyed instead of nervous. “I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

“Suit yourself,” said Bucky.

 

Steve didn’t come back for more than half an hour, and when he did, he wasn’t himself. The rest of the day was spent in a strange sort of silence; one which Bucky didn’t understand but felt he must have somehow been the cause of. Every now and then he would look over to where Steve was sitting and try to think of something he’d done that might have upset him. All he could think about was the worst: that he had somehow slipped up and let Steve see how much he loved him. Maybe Steve thought regular buddies didn’t go to the beach together, or maybe Bucky’s hand had lingered a little too long on Steve’s broad, warm shoulder, or maybe he’d finally noticed how Bucky always managed to be in the line of sight when Steve stepped out of the shower with only a towel on.

If that was the case, Bucky had no idea what he would do. Should he play it hard in the other direction, go out, maybe even bring a girl home? It was something he hadn’t done in a long while, since before the war. It made him feel grimy, bad for lying to himself and for lying to the girl. No, those days were over. He couldn’t prove to Steve what wasn’t true. The only thing he could think of was to enjoy what he had while he still had it, before Steve told him he was leaving.

It was with this in mind that Bucky took off from work a little before Steve and stopped by the butcher in his old neighborhood, who owed him one for sorting out some trouble with a lease a few years back. Then he went by the bakery owned by his Pop’s uncle’s son, his crooked grocer buddy's place, and the florist who had loved him since he was twelve years old and scared some bullies away from her daughter. By the time he got back to their place, he had two big bags of free or almost-free food with him and he was rushing to get there before Steve did.

Steve must have taken his time finishing up his work, because Bucky had a chance to set up a full spread for dinner, plus dessert. He even took out a tablecloth his Ma had given them, and dug out a jar for the flowers. As he looked at it all, he started for a second to think how dumb it all looked, how obvious, but then— _he’s gotta know_ , he thought, _and if he’s going to tell me he’s leaving soon, I might as well get one good dinner out of it._ So he left the flowers and the tablecloth where they were, and was just trying to arrange himself on the couch in a casual kind of position when Steve came through the door.

He looked tired, really tired, more than Bucky had realized, but when he saw the setup in the kitchen, his whole face changed. First he looked confused, then happy, and then, as he turned to look at Bucky, his face got that strange unreadable bright directness Bucky had seen earlier that day. “Bucky, where’d all this come from?”

“Fell off the back of a truck,” said Bucky, trying for a joke. Steve just chuckled and kept looking at him with the same blue-eyed brightness, and Bucky hesitated for a second, wondering how to answer in a way that sounded like it could be true. “I called in a few favors,” he said, “I guess I just figured we deserved a good meal for once.”

“Just because?” Steve asked. He was looking at him so intently, with such a strange look in his eye, that Bucky started to wonder if he’d gotten something wrong.

“Can’t a guy do something nice for—” He stumbled. What was Steve to him, exactly? “—for a change?” he finished, lamely, looking up at Steve.

For a moment, Steve looked like he was about to say something, or maybe make some kind of sudden motion. Bucky held his breath, but instead, Steve just broke into a wide smile. “Well, are you just going to sit there while all this grub gets cold? I’m starving.”

They sat down at the table, but just as Bucky was about to make another lame joke about why he’d done things up so nice, Steve leapt up again. Bucky watched him rummage around in the cupboard without asking any questions, happy to have a minute without Steve’s stare making him feel all twisted up inside. _You really screwed yourself on this one, buddy,_ he thought. _How are you going to explain this away without sounding like some lovesick—_

Bucky’s thoughts derailed when Steve turned back to him, carrying two tall candlesticks and a pair of long, white tapers. This time, Steve didn’t meet his eyes right away, and when he did, he looked almost sheepish. “It just didn’t—” he started to say, looking over at Bucky a little awkwardly and fumbling with the candles. “It just didn’t feel right—I mean you doing all this and me doing nothing.” He managed to fit both candles in their holders, but didn’t move any further.

“It’s a nice touch,” said Bucky. “Real pretty.”

“Yeah,” said Steve, still standing. Then he seemed to realize he’d frozen and put the candles down quickly in the middle of the table, between the ham and the basket of rolls. Bucky watched him pull out the matchbook he sometimes saw him use on the rare occasions when he smoked his pipe, out on the fire escape in the evenings. He’d always admired the smooth way Steve’s capable artist hands struck the match, like one fluid motion. But now Steve broke one, two matchsticks and couldn’t get a light.

“Let me,” said Bucky, standing up. Steve looked for a minute like he wasn’t going to let him, holding the matchbook in his hand and gazing at him, confused. But then Bucky stepped over and reached, and Steve moved his hand automatically up towards him, almost as if he was offering more than just the little packet.

Bucky took the matches from him but stayed close, very close. He was looking at Steve, and Steve was looking at him, and for the second time that day Bucky felt like he was on the cusp of a revelation, on the edge of the morning, like something big and bright was about to happen.

His fingers moved without thinking and struck once, twice, though he couldn’t make himself stop looking at Steve and he knew he was probably missing the strike paper by a mile. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought, _who needs matches?_ Steve in the evening sunlight was brighter than any kind of candle.

He found himself swaying a little, leaning forward, his mind just on the edge of shutting off, and then—“Fuck!” The match caught, hissing, and burned the tip of his finger. He jerked away automatically and Steve, startled, moved too. For a second all Bucky could do was stare at the lit match like some kind of caveman, and only Steve holding the candle to it and then blowing the damn thing out stopped him from getting burned a second time. “Thanks,” said Bucky, after a minute.

“You’re a goddamn fire hazard,” said Steve, his voice shaky. They looked at each other.

“I’m hungry,” said Bucky.

The food was a little cold by now, but still miles better than anything they had had since Easter at Bucky’s folks’ place. Bucky was halfway through his second helping when Steve broke the silence. “Bucky, what do you want to be?”

Bucky stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”

Steve was looking at him intently. “I mean, what do you want to do with your life? In ten years, where do you want to be?”

_I want to be wherever you are,_ Bucky thought. He swallowed a mouthful of cabbage. “What kind of question is that to ask a guy?”

“You got to have some kind of plan,” said Steve.

“I don’t know,” said Bucky, truthfully. “I never really thought about it. I always knew I wanted to come back here, you know, to Brooklyn, but after that I never…” He trailed off.

It was darker now than when they had sat down, and the flickering candlelight made Steve’s skin look like gold. Before he spoke again he looked down at his plate and then back up at Bucky, his eyelashes like a gilt fringe on blue, blue eyes. “There’s nothing you want to do?”

“Nah,” said Bucky. He found he still couldn’t tear his eyes away from Steve as he asked, “What about you? What’s your plan?”

Steve took a long moment to answer. “I guess I don’t have much of one either,” he said, and Bucky could almost feel the way Steve looked him over, questioning, uncertain and—something else.

“I guess we’ll just stick around then,” he responded.

“Guess so,” said Steve. He looked strange but not, Bucky thought, unhappy. Bucky wanted to ask, _What’s going on with you?_ He wanted to get up from his seat and cross over and ask, _Do you know? Are you going to leave me?_ He wanted—he wanted to lean across and take Steve’s hand and say, _Stick around. Don’t go. Stay. I need—_

“I better clean up,” he said all of a sudden, getting up. It was a ridiculous thing to say, because he clearly still had half a plate of food left and Steve was just reaching for his third roll. But it had to be better than sitting across from Steve and thinking it might be time to do some things that would get him in a whole lot of trouble.

He grabbed his plate and a serving dish at random and started to rummage around in the Frigidaire, making space. Behind him he heard Steve get up. “I’ll help,” he heard, and then the sound of cutlery being moved around, fast and utilitarian. Whatever strange potential had been in the room, Bucky had broken it. He’d avoided making too much of an idiot of himself, and Steve was still around, for now. So why did he feel like he’d been kicked in the stomach?

           

The next day was Friday, the day Bucky had planned to spend getting things ready for their trip to the beach. Instead, he woke up late to a note from Steve saying he’d gone in early to work. The night before, Steve had stayed up in the living room after they cleaned up the half-finished meal, and Bucky had drifted off to sleep watching the steady light from under the door and wondering what it was Steve was working on. Waking up to an empty apartment and facing the walk to the office alone was another kick in the teeth. _You’d better get used to it_ , he thought to himself, _It’ll be lucky if Steve stays through the weekend._

He halfway expected Steve to be gone from the office, too—all of his stuff packed up, maybe, and a new cartoonist in his old desk chair. But he was there when Bucky got in, sitting at his desk as usual. He’d even brought Bucky a roll from the place around the corner and left it on his desk right next to the day’s stack of Dear Dottie letters.

“I forgot to eat before I left the house,” said Steve, “and I figured I might as well get you something while I was at the store, since you got us that big spread last night.” His voice was cheerful, but Bucky noted with a sick feeling that he looked tired and anxious.

“Thanks,” Bucky replied. He tried to match Steve’s energy but couldn’t. _I wish he’d just up and say it_ , he thought, _I wish he’d tell me he’s leaving and then I wouldn’t have to feel so damn bad waiting for it._

Steve looked like he was about to say something as Bucky sat down at his desk, but when Bucky looked up at him, he closed his mouth and looked back at his sketchpad.

Bucky reached for the first Dear Dottie letter. Surprisingly enough, it was from the same lady he’d written back to a few days ago. Once again Bucky was hit by a weird sense of familiarity as he started to read,

_Dear Dottie,_

_I hate to bother you again, but I’ve got something important to say and I need your help saying it. I really like this guy of mine. He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s kind. Being with him is the best part of my day and I honest to God can’t remember a time when I’ve felt as good as I do when I’m with him. He thinks I’m just a good friend but I want more than that and I swear he does too, he just won’t say it to me. I can tell because he looks at me the same way I look at him, and I love him. I—_

Bucky put the letter down. It was too much. He couldn’t read this girl talking about her guy the way he thought about Steve, hearing her say all these things to be published in the paper when he couldn’t even tell them to the one other person who needed to hear them. He loved Steve and all he could do was drag himself through the day hoping to God that Steve didn’t leave him that afternoon, just stuck around one day longer, one hour.

There was a ringing in his ears and he found that he was standing up. “Bucky?” Steve’s voice sounded like it was coming from a mile away, startled and a little afraid.

“I’m alright,” he managed to say, “I just need—”

“Bucky,” said Steve again, and this time the voice was closer and Bucky realized Steve had come to stand right by him. When he looked up he saw that his eyes were wide with something and he was breathing fast. “What happened? Was it—was it the letter?”

“Nothing,” said Bucky, “Just hit a little close to home, that’s all, stupid of me to get upset you know but I just get caught up in these things I guess, lose my head.” He was rambling now, running his mouth trying to come up with a good reason why this letter should have upset him so much. “Nothing for you to worry about, nothing to do with you nothing at all I just, you know, I just I get sometimes, a little, kind of—”

“Jesus Christ,” said Steve, and he reached out and covered Bucky’s hand with his own.

Bucky froze. It was like every scrap of fear and nerves rattling around in his head got swept away by the little bit of pressure and warmth from Steve’s hand on top of his.

“Bucky…” Steve was looking down, not at where their hands rested together on the desktop or at Bucky but anywhere else. “Bucky, I wrote that letter. Those letters.”

For a minute Bucky couldn’t breathe. “What?”

Steve still wouldn’t look at him. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I really thought…I really thought, well, what I said.” He started to move, but Bucky grabbed him by the wrist before he could pull his hand away. Steve finally looked up, caught by surprise, and Bucky was bowled over once again by the look in his eyes.

“I…what do you mean, what you said?” Bucky felt like his brain was operating in a vat of molasses, two speeds slower than it should have been.

“Didn’t you read them?” Steve responded.

“Sure, I read them, it’s my job,” said Bucky, “and I wrote back damn good responses, too.”

Steve looked disbelieving. “Bucky, for God’s sake, I’m not saying you don’t do your job.”

“You’re damn right,” Bucky huffed, “I read those letters. And what were you doing giving me extra work I didn’t have to do?”

“Jesus, Buck, you’re completely missing—”

“Writing me stuff like that, making me think things were… well, not the way they were.”

“What? How are you still not—”

“I mean I get that we’re friends and you like a joke, Steve, but you can’t go getting my—I mean, making me feel like you, like you felt something maybe that you didn’t.”

Steve closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand, the way he did when he had one of his headaches coming. Bucky was still riled up, which was his natural reaction to a situation he didn’t understand at all and that made him very uncomfortable. He was just about to open his mouth with another round of smartass comments when Steve spoke again. “Bucky, I’m going to do something right now, and I hope you’re not going to get sore with me for it, because it’s your own fault for being so goddamn stupid.”

Then he leaned forward and kissed him.

Bucky actually felt his brain short-circuit. All the dumb things he’d been planning to say for the next week vanished from his head and he could think of nothing but the soft warmth of Steve’s lips and the little bit of pressure from his fingers where they gripped Bucky’s shoulder for balance. When Steve started to pull away Bucky brought a hand up to the back of his head and pulled him in again, and they both stumbled a little until Bucky’s back hit the wall.

“I think I get it now,” said Bucky, after they broke for air.

“Do you?” said Steve, “because boy, you are one slow-moving son of a bitch. I thought you’d get it after the first or second one for sure.” Up this close, his eyelashes looked no less fine than Bucky’d thought they would.

“So how come you like me so much, then?”

Steve smiled down at him. “Beats me.” He looked about as breathless as Bucky felt.

“You wrote me love letters.”

“I guess I did.”

“You big sap.” Bucky brought his hand up to Steve’s shoulder, testing out the feel of his cotton shirt. “I thought you were going to leave.”

In answer Steve just kissed him again, deeper, with a kind of hunger that caused a sweet spike somewhere in Bucky’s gut. Without thinking, he reached out, his hand scrabbling against Steve’s beltline.

Steve pulled away, breathing heavily. “Think Mannheimer would notice if we took off early?”

“I think we’re going if he cares or not,” Bucky replied. He leaned forward a little, face a hair from Steve’s face. “And I know where we’re gonna go, too.”

“Yeah?” said Steve, teasingly. “Where’s that?”

Bucky looked up at him, at the beautiful face and the kind eyes and the smartass mouth that was finally, finally his. “We’re going to the damn beach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, and please let me know: hated it? loved it? Strong opinions on some aspect of it? Or come get me on tumblr @jennetjourdemaynes.


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